


Our newest recruit

by Maritrar



Series: Your own path [4]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23132485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maritrar/pseuds/Maritrar
Summary: A glimpse through the grand masters eyes as he watches over OC. Musings, OC background and some careful smut.
Relationships: Haytham Kenway/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Your own path [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1089939
Kudos: 22





	Our newest recruit

The oil lamp burns with a warm constant sheen. Set on the tall chest of drawers behind me it’s positioned so that the light falls onto the letter I read and the small table in front of me, while merely a faint residual glow reaches beyond the bed hangings of the canopy bed and the girl resting there.

My newest asset; a headstrong young female of surprising intellect and a determination. 

I raise my gaze and for a moment, I watch her sleep. Her face is flushed with fever, the normally pale and rosy complexion of her skin has acquired a pronounced crimson taint. Her breath, drawn deep and regular between scarlet lips, is elevated. 

I do not like it. 

My physician, Doctor Barrows is called away, an hour’s drive outside the city and though my carriage was sent there at his convenience, we do not expect him for another hour at the earliest. 

I turn back to the letter that arrived this morning, one from Charles with a report detailing her background, a narrative pieced together by several of our agents.

As I wait for the doctor, I settle down to read. It reports of a stabile upbringing on her father’s estate up until her mother’s untimely death in childbirth when the girl was only seven. A father and older brother keenly interested in the new inventions of industry and agriculture, who sought refuge in that field in their time of grief. Her childhood left to the nannies at her family estate, then during the blossom of her youth; when a girl is so reliant on a woman’s guidance, she was drawn away on frequent travels at her father’s side, visiting factories and sites of industry women rarely find interest in. A modest and obedient daughter quietly following her father and elder brother. Several isolated reports mention the girl’s bright and keen gaze, a few accounts of brilliantly insightful questions asked, followed by the informants comment of the father’s reaction of sharp dismissal or blatant disregard.

It has always amazed me how blind some parents are, how her father did not recognize his own keen interest in her, that he could not appreciate her intellect, when he clearly did in the son.

At the same time, I understand more about her from reading these accounts; her quiet demeanor and reserved disposition, her natural skill at covert observation, her sound reflections and the way she offers only what information is relevant.

The way she hungers for acknowledgement.

They are the marks of a starved soul, one that persisted despite everything and never gave up.

The reports all paint the same picture; for years, her father trailed her along like a shadow; denied attention and recognition and deprived of a woman’s influence. Then, when some suitable suitor came along, he was completely bowled over when the girl refused.

The accounts of what happened next, are inconclusive; rumors have a tendency to stray from the truth, but the essence lies between the lines; an ultimatum, a choice made, and the girl was disowned. 

She came into our order through our network in Washington; one of our acquaintances spoke for her and she was taken into training. A month shy of two years since. I was there a few months later, the last in a vast series of meetings following my return to the colonies as Grand Master of the Colonial rite. 

She was no one, just another pair of hands doing my bidding at the bottom of the chain until she disturbed our practice that night. I now know the reason for her appearance. It’s not often I’m caught unaware, but back then she evaded even my keen hearing. Only when chance had me use my special sense did I uncloak her presence. The deep blue hue of her glow as she slipped out into the hall caught my interest. Already then, I knew she was significant and ever since I have been quietly following her progress from afar, considering her for our inner sanctum. 

Her connection to Shay is a coincidence, a fortuitous one, luckily, and I intend to see it stay that way.

Muted footsteps down the hall, signals the doctors arrival. Aside from my ability, his gait stands out behind Yates’s and I get to my feet to greet him without the need to use my special vision.

Doctor Barrows arrives, grave and efficient. Yates has already briefed him on the way through the house. Barely a nod in my direction before he is at the patient’s side, meticulous, proficient and thorough in his evaluation. Between Barrows and Yates, she is in the best hands, and yet I cannot shake the cold dread at the week clench of her jaw, at seeing the lack of luster in her eyes and the fatigue in her movements while Barrows cleans the wound. He finishes up, applying some sharp-smelling ointment, before carefully redressing the wound. 

“I would have preferred to give her Laudanum, Kenway,” he says quietly when he steps away from the bed, drying his hands. In the background, Yates methodically packs away his equipment.

I grind my teeth together.

Laudanum is effective, a powerful pain-reliever that also breaks a fever. But there are side-effects that I myself know all too well. Beyond the very real risk of dependence, Laudanum creates some powerful hallucinations. Illusions that could scare a man to death at the best of days, and at the worst… After what this girl lived through, I do not dare it.

“Not if we can help it, Barrows. You know my stand in this.”

Barrows considers me with a stretched pause.

“You’re leaving her to suffer; a young lady, Kenway,” he says, but I am well aware of the controversy of my decision.

“Her sex, makes those same reasons hold double importance, notwithstanding her experiences yesterday.”

Barrows only nods at this. He knows something of our line of work, although not the full extent; he knows my motives and will not push this unless necessary, and I will heed him then.

Barrows packs away his equipment, then leaves. He has agreed to dinner tonight and will return after finishing another few appointments. I settle back to work another couple of hours while he is away.

I cannot help but feel that this is the third time in two days she is walking on a thin sheet of ice. Just a veil of frozen water separating her from the cold embrace of death. 

I do not know what I would do, had she perished in that ambush.

The thin sheet of ice held her then, but I sharply sensed the brittle boundary threatening to crumble under her. Alone, I could have easily scaled a wall and escaped. The utter terror I felt in realizing there was no way out of that compound for her, that there was no way I could aid her, in the vision of her raising a stiletto against a sabre, is something I will do my utmost to never experience again. I could scarcely believe our luck finding her still alive; relief briefly flooding my veins, just to freeze again at seeing the blood trickling down her arm and her the frozen empty gaze. 

What would Shay have done, had her life been lost?

Shay who has endured so much, has borne so much. Would that added load have crushed him? 

When he left this morning, I gave Shay my word I’d keep her safe. 

He knew he were the one to follow the trail Hickey uncovered, accepted the mission without reservations. All because he trusts me, trusts my judgement and my word.

I find myself looking at the sleeping girl, unable to take my eyes away. She does not know the ice that poured into my veins this morning when for a second I thought I had been blind. That Shay would yet again be faced with the acidic pain of betrayal, that I would have to inform him and either give him the task of removing the threat or do so myself. 

I don’t believe in a higher deity, however, I am grateful fortune tipped her scales in miss Devon’s favor. 

I draw my gaze away from her sleeping form, return to another lengthy letter from Charles in my hand, momentarily forgotten in my lapse of concentration. Yates brought it, when he escorted doctor Barrows and I turn my focus to it with mounting interest.

Charles reports of Gist and Weeks investigation. Having spent the day in survey of Millner’s plot of land, they conclude the fall across the property holds the requirements for a sawmill. The creak has enough water to float timber from our forested areas upstream. There is building-quality rock under a foot or two of soil. With sufficient manpower, we could have the required canal dug out before the ground sets in frost, then quarry the foundation stones needed for the structure before the first snowfall. With a little luck I could have the mill-structure built over the course of the winter months. The work would have to halt during heavy snowfalls, however, if the weather keeps with us; the sawmill could be operational at the start of next summer. 

All because of her brilliant mind and her unrelenting concern for her duties and our order. 

My gaze drift to her sleeping form again, the letter in my hand forgotten anew as I notice the frown drawn on her brow. A crinkle of worry tightening as her breath turns uneven. The start of a nightmare, robbing her of the rest she needs to recover. I deliberate the option of waking her and reassuring her, but decide to let her sleep in the hope that she will settle back down. 

Despite my hopes, her unease soon seems to grow, her breath turning agitated and her body stiffening.

I cannot allow it to continue. 

Resolute, I fold away the letter and make my way to her bedside. She jerks at some unseen peril, a shrill sound escaping between her lips and though I did not intend to, my hand caress her cheek. 

“Shhh, it’s all right. You’re safe. Nothing can harm you here.” 

Her eyelids flutters and then her blue eyes focusses, tiredly. The sharp gleam of discomfort is one I have learned to recognize a long time ago. She is in pain. The wound on her arm should never have suffered the pressure of that tight sleeve and again I curse myself for not sending her back to bed, first thing this morning. 

“Shh, it’s all right, my dear. I’m here.” 

Her immediate anxiety is calming, and she is slowly settling down, but the pain does not subside.

Fever sensitizes the skin, enhances the pain of a wound, but I know firsthand how a gentle touch can relieve pain. One of the marvels of the human body is how the mind prioritizes sensing it’s surrounding over monitoring an injury. 

I let my fingers skim over her brow and card lightly through her hair, watch as the creases on her brow smoothen and her eyes shines with relief. 

“Your dreams were causing you agitation. I thought it best to wake you.” I keep my voice low and smooth, a murmur not to disturb her tiredness. Her eyes are slowly drooping. 

“Go back to sleep,” I mutter, and the girl follows the gentle order as I pull my hand away remaining quietly by her side. It is but a minute before pain draws her back awake. 

I take a seat by her side as she wakes again.

“Are you in pain, my dear?” 

I already know the answer, reading it in the pull of her breath and the light of her eyes before they well over with tears. 

I have never felt much sympathy for the tears of women; they seem to fall for all sorts of reasons, some even on intent, but here and now my chest contracts in sympathy and I find myself bending down and kissing her brow lightly. Enduring pain for hours on end will drain even the toughest of constitutions, and though she’s strong; this is wearing her out.

“It’s all right, Miss Devon. I can make it go away, and if you allow me; I will.” 

The look she gives me is one of distress. 

“How?” 

I let the back of my fingers grace her cheek, gently. 

“There are but a few tricks that works, some more efficient than others…” 

She watches me open, thoughtful, even while her skin burns with fever. 

“A gentle touch works as long as my hand is moving, a temporary fix that loses effect the moment I stop, but there are other ways to make it last…” 

She just watches me, fatigued and quiet. The pour thing is exhausted. 

“Pleasure…” I draw my thumb over her lips and notice her breath catch, the way I hoped it would, “will chase away pain and keep it away for a while.” 

The skin of her cheek is impossibly soft and smooth, unmarred and pristine as the back of my fingers skim the gentle curve. I lift my gaze and find her eyes on me, uncertain and matte, but unmistakably darker than before. 

“I won’t try to persuade you, but you should know that if you chose to accept, Shay would not disapprove.” 

She swallows tightly and to give her time to think, I deliberately misread the sign, get to my feet and go over to the dresser fetching a pitcher of water and filling her a glass. I aid her drinking before setting the glass down on the nightstand and when I reclaim the seat on her bedside, I know she has come to a decision. 

The eyes that follows me intently are wide and dark. I know that look only too well, know the temptation the reprieve from pain represents and the blatant need it fuels. When she nods her head, barely perceptive I am not surprised. 

I give her a reassuring smile, cup her cheek gently as I slip a hand under the cover. Her skin is burning to the touch and my hands must seem freezing as she jumps a little when my palm settles just above her knee.

“Shh, try to relax. I’ll go slowly.”

I let my hand skim up her thigh a few inches, a light caress that idles back and forth while I watch for subtle signs of displeasure or doubt. She closes her eyes and as I let the trail inch slowly higher, the hue of her skin deepens.

Her lips slip apart, a little gasp flown form her mouth in a rush of air. I can’t quite resist leaning closer to her, to hover over her protectively; possessive and as my fingers reach the junction between her thighs, she turns her face against my wrist and presses her lips to my skin.

She’s beautiful, Shay’s girl, her warm breath rushing over my wrist when I cover her plush mound with my fingers, applying just a little pressure and movement. She gasps and arches into my touch and I can see the way her pulse is pounding on her neck.

“Shh, try to relax. There’s no need to rush.”

Underneath my fingers, a slick wetness is spreading, with each slow swirl of my fingers, turning her flesh slippery and soon my fingers are covered too. The tips of my fingers are drawing lazy circles and when I finally push between her folds, she moans, quiet and repressed, holding back with all her strength.

The mix of pity and warmth that rushes through my chest makes me brush my lips against her cheek before murmuring close to her ear.

“Don’t hold back, my dear. No one will hear you.”

Her breath falters and then her voice falls in a pleading, ragged sound from parted lips.

My heart tumbles and I cannot refrain from praising her.

“Good,” I murmur. 

I did not intend to affect her so, but when the word falls onto her skin, a shiver runs through her, and I can’t resist doing it again. I watch her breath hitch when my fingers slide into her warmth, the resistance in her muscles slowly melting as pleasure replaces pain. The moan she fails to contain shivers down my spine. I can’t help but relish the trust she bestows in me, allowing this aid.

A careful angling of my wrist as my fingers slide back and forth inside her, aiming for that special spot and when I find it, she is shivering with each gentle thrust. She draws her knee up a fraction, a bashful accommodation and I make sure to grind the heel of my palm against her. 

I will not deny that I enjoy this, unravelling another in pleasure, the way she submits to my will, the shiver through her body when she meets my level gaze, seeing the flush spreading across her face and the sheer helplessness at preserving a piece of modesty; the sense of conquest as propriety loses in the face of the pleasure I build. 

Her back arches of the bed, the sound of her voice ragged and quietly desperate while I push her towards the peak. She is growing tight around my fingers and wet, so wet and I know she’s on the edge. 

“There you go.”

The exhaled breath rushes across her trembling lips as she tumbles from the ledge. 

“So good,” I praise softly, my fingers coaxing her climax gently, “well done, my dear.” Her insides grip my fingers, and I know I’m skirting dangerous territory, her need for praise is not something I want her to associate with sex, but in this moment she needs reassurance and I will give her all the comfort I can.

She breathes in small gasps as she comes down, her eyes fluttering open when her senses return. I rest my hand inside her, intent to make her come again if she will let me.

She turns her face from my wrist and meets my gaze a moment before her eyes trail to my lips. In her gaze I read the rush of want through her and the hesitation stalling her.

My goal has always been to bind her closer to us, to the order, then to Shay and ultimately to myself. This is just another way of doing that. I lean down towards her, halting an inch above. Her eyes widen in surprise and her breath stumbles as she meets my gaze. I hold onto her gaze, steady and assured and with a barely perceptive moan her eyes fall shut. Closing the distance to her, I brush my lips against hers, once, twice and when her modesty falls prey to my coaxing, I press my lips to hers, molding our mouths together, brushing the seam of her lips with my tongue. 

A sudden tightening around my fingers and a rush of warmth runs through me. 

I spread my fingers inside her, start sliding them in and out, swallows her moan and conquer her mouth as I set a firm, deliberate pace. She breaks the kiss with a startled yelp but then her eyes fall shut and she utters a desperate garbled sound as her hand clasps my arm. 

Most women do not know how to peak more than once, but it’s not that hard to accomplish if you know the mechanics of it, and I know she has the capacity; knows she knows this too. Her core is fluttering around my fingers while I continue this erratic pace, the wetness inside her soon trickling down my fingers. She is desperately close, but I hold her off, just a little longer. She makes another keening sound and then her thighs clamp down on my arm, stilling the pace of my movement as she peeks again. I bend down and brush my lips against her jaw, trailing gentle kisses down the sensitized skin of her neck, all the while caressing her inner walls; every movement sending a thrill of pleasure through her. When she finally stills, her whole body sags against the pillows, lethargic and sated. I withdraw my hand and tuck the cover back over her feet. Her eyes flutter closed as I caress her cheek then kiss her brow.

Before I am finished washing my hands, she is sleeping soundly.


End file.
